The hearth blazed brightly, and jugs of wine stood ready on the table. Dorne wine ran red as blood. Servants filled Lord Nestor's cup and stirred the logs in the fire with tongs.
"My dear cousin," said Nestor Royce, a man of great bulk with a broad chest, a balding head, a beard streaked with white, and small birthmarks across his face. "Inviting Lannisters is not the wisest move."
"Don't be too harsh," said Yohn Royce.
"My lord, this is our second meeting." Tyrion raised a hand to stop the servant from pouring. "Last time, I was Lady Catelyn's prisoner. Do you remember how splendidly I boxed?"
"After you left, some accused the trial of being rigged," Lord Nestor said. "And now you've married her daughter. Even so, the Vale does not welcome you."
Sansa focused intently on her dinner, while Tyrion's place before him remained empty. He neither ate nor drank, relying only on the dry rations and water brought from the Riverlands.
Ever since arriving in the Vale, he had been cautious to the point of paranoia—treating every meal and drink as if it might conceal danger.
Podrick had once tended the horses, Edric handled the sword, and Hoster oversaw correspondence. Now the three attendants had a new duty: tasting the food.
"It's merely a newlywed couple visiting their kin," Yohn Royce said. "I hear Lord Corbray is holding a wedding in Gulltown."
"Indeed—he's marrying the sixteen-year-old daughter of a wealthy Gulltown merchant. A commoner climbing the social ladder, with quite a generous dowry," Nestor Royce said. "All thanks to Lord Petyr Baelish's matchmaking."
"Hmph," Bronze snorted.
"Many nobles will be attending," Nestor Royce continued. "Lord Gerold Graffson, Lord Jon Lynderly, Lord Wickley, Lady Benedar Belmore, Lady Anya Waynwood, Ser Symond Templeton."
The string of names gave Tyrion a headache, but he recognized that some of them belonged to the Lords Declarant.
"Are you not attending, cousin?"
"I've no intention of it," Bronze said. "It's nothing but a gathering of schemers."
"That's rather rude," Nestor remarked. "Lady Lysa and Lord Robert will both be present."
"Lady Lysa has grown generous and wise with her husband's passing. She appointed me Warden of the Gates of the Moon." Nestor Royce practically glowed, his cheeks flushed. He pointed to above the hearth. "The letter of appointment is right there."
Tyrion rose and stepped closer to the hearth, warming his hands as he examined the words. The flickering firelight made his eyes ache as he read.
But there was no doubt—it was a true honor.
"You deserve it, my lord," Tyrion said. "With a loyal guardian like you keeping watch at the foot of the mountain, Lord Robert can sleep soundly every night."
Nestor Royce finally broke into a smile.
"You are… truly diligent, my lord. Yes, wise and decisive in all things. I heard of you even before my time in the sky cells," Tyrion continued. "But others may question this reward, and it could stain your name. You know the position of Warden is not hereditary. When House Arryn bore the Falcon Crown and ruled the Vale, they built Moon Door as their winter seat. The Eyrie is only fit for summer; when snow falls, they must move down. Many believe Moon Door is as noble as the Eyrie itself."
"Quite right," Lord Nestor declared, chest swelling. "I don't deny I wanted this gift. When Jon went to King's Landing to serve as Hand of the King, I took on the burden of ruling the Vale alone. I fulfilled every one of his demands, never asking for reward. By the gods, this is the reward I earned!"
Tyrion glanced at his wife. Sansa immediately lifted her cup.
"A toast, then, to Lord Royce… the eternal guardian of Gates of the Moon."
"The eternal guardian! Cheers!" Silver cups clinked together—except for Bronze and succubus.
Much later, long after they had finished the Dornish red, Lord Nestor rose to take his leave. By then Sansa was already drowsy, and Tyrion guided her back to their bedchamber.
The hearth fire roared, driving out both the cold and the haze of wine from his wife's cheeks.
"The relationship between the two Royce lords seems less harmonious than I imagined." Sansa slipped off her robe and lay down on the soft feather bed. She pulled the velvet blanket over herself and slid into the nest of bedding.
"Those born into a cadet branch without fiefs inevitably harbor certain feelings toward the main house," Tyrion said as he sat at the bedside, removing his clothes. "All the more since Nestor Royce once courted Lady Lysa and was rejected. She's never shown him much kindness."
"Ser Brynden has no fief either," Sansa said. "He doesn't act that way."
"The Blackfish is an honorable man. Unmarried, without children." Tyrion moved closer to his wife. "Nestor Royce has a son and a daughter. Once a man has children, he can't help thinking of them. I say, you ought to leave me some heirs of my own!"
He slid his hand over her shoulder. "Let me see your pair of the Eyrie."
"Your hand is freezing!" She pressed his hand down. "And don't crush my hair… So you mean Lord Nestor is after a fief? That giving Lord Nestor Gates of the Moon is meant to secure his support?"
"Obviously." Tyrion's hand remained sly. "The signature on the appointment is Petyr Baelish. For his own interests, he'd never withdraw his support for Littlefinger."
"There are many unclaimed castles in the Riverlands. We could give him…"
"No. Those of House Royce are proud and sensitive. If you make an outright offer, he'll take it as an insult to his honor and likely explode on the spot—like an enraged toad." Tyrion shook his head. "Littlefinger has taken the initiative, and the Lords Declarant have already been divided. That's why Bronze invited us. Even if he's truly made of bronze, how many nails can he hammer in?"
Sansa nodded, half understanding. "My lord, are you hungry or thirsty? I noticed you didn't eat or drink anything tonight."
"I must be cautious. Poison is one of Littlefinger's regular tools," Tyrion said, burying his head beneath the velvet blanket. His voice came muffled from inside. "What I need is water from Alyssa's Tears!"
"Hey!" Sansa kicked her legs, pretending to struggle, but soon fell quiet.
After a moment, Tyrion poked his head out again.
"I still need a drink."
"What's wrong?"
"Alyssa's Tears has dried up."
"It has not!" Sansa's face turned red.
"It has," Tyrion said with a wicked grin. "It's become the Neck."
Then he dove back under the covers.